


And If I Seemed Dangerous, Would You Be Scared?

by Blondtaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, BDSM, Dolls, Dom Combeferre, Eventual Smut, Fantastic Racism, Fauns & Satyrs, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, References to Drugs, Slow Burn, Sub Enjolras, Succubi & Incubi, Trans Enjolras, Trans Male Character, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26246209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondtaire/pseuds/Blondtaire
Summary: "That's Enjolras. He comes here twice a week, sometimes more. Never drinks anything stronger than coffee. Always trying to get people on board with his causes.”Causes? Combeferre grew more curious about this “Enjolras” by the second. Then again, he knew it was a bad idea to linger on his fascination.---Enjolras politically radicalizes Combeferre. Combeferre sexually radicalizes Enjolras. Both of them are into BDSM and angsty about it. Also, Supernatural beings exist, and they're treated as second-class citizens.
Relationships: Combeferre/Enjolras (Les Misérables), possible E/R or C/E/R later on
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. First Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm changing this note because the intention of this fic has changed. It was originally going to be porn with plot. Now it's a slow(ish) burn that will eventually progress into more erotic themes. Chapters with sex scenes will warn the reader in the beginning notes, as will chapters with particularly heavy triggers.
> 
> This is an AU where Les Amis de l'ABC doesn't exist (yet). The main pairing is Combeferre/Enjolras. Combeferre and Enjolras are both probably some form of neurodivergent. That wasn't my intention, but you write what you know.
> 
> I do not necessarily agree with the (fantasy) political opinions expressed by any specific character. I can say that a lot of Combeferre's opinions will be greatly challenged by Enjolras.
> 
> Unfamiliar Terms:  
> SN = Supernatural

“I’m not going to a Supernaturals-only bar.”

“Come on! It’s Jehan’s birthday. You’ll be surrounded by people you know.”

Combeferre shook his head, pressing two square fingertips against his temple. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Lies,” Courfeyrac scoffed. He took a seat across from Combeferre at their tiny kitchen table, leaning over nearly far enough to press their faces together. He slid his hand onto Combeferre’s forehead, letting a few moments pass. “Doctor Courfeyrac diagnoses you with Inhibitions,” Courfeyrac determined coolly, slinking back into his chair but never breaking his suspicious gaze. His eyes shined lasers into Combeferre’s, and he had to look away so that their glint off of his glasses wouldn’t overwhelm his judgement.

Combeferre hated moments like this, ones which were perfectly normal but sparked something in him that he had to restrain, all because of the slightest physical contact. Of course, he was used to it by now. He didn’t show any signs of what was boiling beneath his skin almost every hour of every day. Blue eyes in particular only strengthened the horrid feeling, and Courfeyrac’s were omnipresent. It was a part of Combeferre's being as a particular kind of Supernatural, one which he kept hidden as often as possible.

“It would be rude not to go,” Courfeyrac pointed out, blissfully unaware of how frantically Combeferre’s leg was bobbing underneath the table-- anything to get out the excess energy and emotions that he had no desire to keep.

“Was it not rude for Jehan to have his birthday party at a Supernatural-only venue? You’re one of his best friends, yet he picked a place you’re not even allowed to go.”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “We had a late lunch together to celebrate. Besides, sometimes he just needs to get away from humans for a while and be with his SN friends; I get it.”

“I don’t,” Combeferre murmured. He would have hoped that his word as a Supernatural would hold enough weight for Courfeyrac to drop the matter, since Courfeyrac seemed to consider the distinction more important than he did.

As luck would have it, however, Courfeyrac didn’t stop. The red in his blue eyes, the faint magical aroma on his breath, and the fact that he had been hanging out with Jehan earlier told Combeferre all he needed to know about his lightweight friend’s current state of mind. The smell of the intoxicant only made Combeferre’s frustration stronger, but he knew to be forgiving of his friend in this state.

“Come oooon,” Courfeyrac droned. “Fee’s gonna be there. You love Fee.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve only known Feuilly for a couple of months.”

“Doesn’t matter. You love Fee. I know it, because everyone loves Fee. They can’t help it.”

Admittedly, Courfeyrac might have been right. Combeferre couldn’t think of a single negative thing about Feuilly, neither from what others had said nor from what he had observed of the dwarf himself. That said, Combeferre didn’t share the same sentiment as his friend. Everyone had something to hide. “I’m going to bed.” He reached out to pick up the book he had been reading, but Courfeyrac snatched it. “Courf…”

“ _Dracula_? Isn’t this book kind of, y’know...SN-phobic?” Courfeyrac asked, prompting his friend to sigh. “It paints the vampire as totally evil, not to mention it gets the lore around vampires all wrong.”

“All of the classics are like that. It’s an artifact of the past. It doesn’t mean that classic literature isn’t worth reading.”

“I just don’t get how you could empathize with the protagonist knowing he’s fighting against your own.”

Combeferre was starting to get genuinely irritated, beyond the primal feeling under his skin. “What would you know about my ability to empathize with a human protagonist?”

“Nothing. I admit that. I just think it’s, y’know, hypocritical,” Courfeyrac replied. He opened the book and rapidly flipped through the pages with his thumb, which clearly amused him. Combeferre’s eye twitched, and he had to pretend to clean his glasses to play it off. “This is why I think you should spend more time around SNs, you know? Go to Jehan’s party. Live a little. Get out of the human-centric mindset. It’d do you some good--”

Combeferre grabbed the book out of Courfeyrac’s hand with unusual force, leaving his human roommate stunned. “You know what?” Combeferre growled. “I’ll go. Maybe I do need to get away from humans.” He aimed this last word directly at Courfeyrac, feeling only a little regret over the hurt look on his friend’s face.

He waited for no response, grabbing his coat before heading out the front door. It creaked before slamming behind him. His little gray car was waiting out front, his low-energy refuge in times when his nature got the better of him. He went to it with heavy footsteps, paying no mind to the occasional raindrop that cooled his boiling skin. He dug into his pockets without giving himself time to think about what had just occurred. He could do that on the drive to the Corinthe.

With a fraught exhale, Combeferre realized that he had forgotten his keys.

He clasped his hands together to keep them from punching his car instead. The deep breaths he forced himself to take were agonizing and harsh as he turned back to the apartment. His head hung slightly lower and his jaw clenched tightly as he made his way back over. He would definitely have to cool down; aside from Courfeyrac, no one ever saw him this riled up.

As he stood before the front door, Combeferre paused and let himself continue to breathe. He felt the rage fading already, though he still felt right to be irritated by his friend’s accusation of hypocrisy and sense of authority on the matter at hand. Combeferre wasn’t much for talk about Supernatural solidarity; he would have preferred to pretend that he was just like any human. His friend’s talk of “SN-phobia” felt like no more than a buzzword. If people spent less time talking about how different Supernaturals are and more time trying to integrate themselves, wouldn’t that make humans naturally kinder to Supernaturals? Why waste time trying to change the status quo instead of blending into it?

That said, he knew he had to keep the peace between himself and his roommate. With one more long inhale, Combeferre opened the door. He peered inside and found that the lights were already off; when he turned them on, the full living room of the tiny apartment was bathed in a light that flickered only twice before finding its footing. Courfeyrac, however, was nowhere to be seen, and Combeferre guessed by the darkness underneath the closed door to Courfeyrac’s bedroom that he had already gone to bed.

He went up to Courfeyrac’s door and lifted his hand to knock, but hesitated. Perhaps it would be better to have this conversation once Courfeyrac had slept off his high.

Combeferre went into his own room and picked up his keys from their usual spot, one of many small everyday objects placed immaculately in a row on his desk. After a moment, he questioned himself; he had calmed down, so why go to the party? Being in a Supernatural-only venue would probably just remind him of what had gotten him so worked up in the first place.

Then, at the end of the row of items, he saw something he had completely forgotten: Jehan’s gift, placed in a floral gift bag. Combeferre had intended to give it to Jehan the next time they saw each other in class. If Combeferre went to the party, he could give it to Jehan on his actual birthday. And besides, it _had_ been a minute since he had seen Feuilly and some of the others. Combeferre wasn’t much for drinking or dancing, but if worse came to worst, he could sit in the back with Grantaire and listen to him talk.

Gift bag in one hand and keys in the other, Combeferre went back outside and into his car. The ride to the bar was brief, and Combeferre was surprised to find the venue less busy than usual. As the only bar in the surrounding area that served Supernaturals exclusively, the place was usually packed even on weeknights-- not that Combeferre had ever been inside, but he’d seen how long the lines outside could get whenever he drove by on his way to the university. Today, however, there was no line. Combeferre could see the bouncer, with her goggles and many green snakes spiraling down past her waist. Anacondas. Next to her hung a _We’re Open_ sign, which flashed in multiple colors but had a broken “O”. _We’re pen_.

Combeferre approached the bouncer, who held her hand out for an ID. Combeferre hesitated before pulling out his ID card and handing it over. The bouncer looked it over, particularly the picture, date of birth, and the bottom section that read in bold letters: _Class: SN_.

The bouncer handed back the ID and welcomed Combeferre inside. He nodded and went in, never making eye contact with the gorgon. Although he knew a gorgon’s goggles were specifically designed to filter out the “turning people to stone” power, one could never be too careful. One of the anacondas hissed at him as he passed, only furthering the growing discomfort in his chest as he entered the bar.

The Corinthe was a madhouse, or so it seemed to him. The color scheme could hardly be called such, as it seemed each wall was designed by an entirely different person. The clientele ranged from pixies to cyclops to werewolves, the sounds of magic and animals creating a cacophony over the smooth jazz music. Combeferre was already overwhelmed. At one end, where exotic feathers framed large pictures of the bar’s founding in the ‘60s, Combeferre quickly spotted Jehan. It wasn’t hard to see the glistening silver markings on the fairy’s swarthy skin, nor the delicate cicada’s wings that reflected off of the bar’s dim lights. Jehan’s glowing appearance almost distracted from his equally distinct fashion choices. Combeferre didn’t know they made green-sequined tuxedos.

Jehan’s keen eyes spotted Combeferre almost as soon as he entered, despite Combeferre comparatively drab and concealing appearance. He hadn’t changed for the party, so he was still in the clothes he had worn to class earlier that day, along with his simple and practical raincoat. If not for the minuscule white horns on his forehead, which were usually hidden under his natural hair, no one would be able to tell he was anything other than human.

Jehan’s hand fluttered to beckon Combeferre over, each sequin on his arm reflecting the bar's dim, eclectic lights at countless angles. The fairy was drinking from a goblet-- one he must have brought himself, which wouldn’t come as a surprise-- and chatting with the red-barked wall of an ent known as Bahorel. The tree giant was just small enough to fit inside of the bar, but that would change over the centuries as he grew with age.

“Hey man,” Bahorel greeted, offering an overgrown hand. Combeferre took it, hardly wincing at the ent’s bark-solid grip as the tree giant pulled him into a hearty, back-patting embrace.

Jehan cleared his throat. “My apologies,” Combeferre said, turning toward the fairy. “It’s not polite to ignore the birthday boy. Happy Birthday, Jehan.”

“Oh, you’re fine. What I’m really bummed about is that you hugged him before you hugged me,” Jehan teased.

“Well, let me make it up to you.”

Jehan grinned and opened his arms wide, practically falling onto Combeferre. “It’s so good to see you here. To be perhaps a little too honest, I didn’t think you’d come to a place like this.”

“It took some...convincing,” Combeferre admitted. It wasn’t technically a lie. While Jehan reveled in the hug, Combeferre took the first opportunity to tactfully exit the embrace as he felt his body temperature rise. Even such small bouts of intimacy made him fear losing control. In order to excuse the hug’s sudden cutoff, he held the gift bag he had brought in front of Jehan. “Where should I put this?”

“I’ll take it over to the others,” Bahorel offered. Combeferre handed him the bag and watched him barrel over to a thick, wooden table that looked too ancient for its surroundings.

“Want anything?” asked Jehan. “Drinks are on me tonight.”

Combeferre shook his head.

Jehan gestured to the pocket beneath his lapel. “Fairy dust’s on me tonight, too,” he offered with a wink.

Combeferre shook his head once more. “No, but thank you. Say, aren’t you supposed to be careful about mixing highs?”

“Oh, sweet boy. Fairy dust is commonplace for fairies. It’s not really mixing highs so much as drinking while on prescription medication.”

Combeferre’s eyebrow shot up. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be careful about that, too.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.”

In all honesty, Combeferre wasn’t fond of fairy dust. But he loved to be around Jehan, which posed a bit of a problem. While it was very unlikely to get a contact high from fairy dust, the mere smell of it had some extra effects for certain species. Combeferre still felt too warm, and he wasn’t coming down from it. It was fine, of course; keeping himself restrained was as normal to him as consuming fairy dust probably was to Jehan.

To distract himself, Combeferre took a long look around the room. Most of the dim lights seemed to be focused on a pale yellow wall, a contrast which was a bit headache-inducing, and he couldn’t concentrate for very long on any one spot.

That is, until he saw who was sitting over at the bar counter.

There was a young man perched on one of the round, leather seats, speaking without pause to a long-suffering bartender. His hair was pale enough to absorb the colored patches of light scattered across the room, and at the nape of his neck, Combeferre could see a groove. There were more grooves at his wrists and elbows, indicating ball joints that turned with every small movement of his pale rubber arms. A living doll was a rare sight; they had to be hand-crafted, and few would take it upon themselves to purposefully create a Supernatural being. In every motion, every resettling of his elbows against the bar, every adjustment of his spine and hips against the leather seat, the doll was perfectly coordinated and fluid. His lips and cheeks were delicately painted pink. And there was something else.

Combeferre could only see the man in profile, but he soon turned in his seat to look for something. Instead of whatever he was looking for, his eyes caught Combeferre’s. Even in the darkness between them, Combeferre could see it.

The doll’s eyes were very, very blue.

The heat spiked, forcing something akin to a sharp groan out of Combeferre. He turned away, only to see the concern in Jehan’s face.

“Are you alright?”

Combeferre nodded, swallowing to un-catch his throat. “Yes, yes. I think I’m going to sit down.”

“I’ll join you.”

The two headed over to a group of tables pushed together. Unlike the table with the presents, these tables were all relatively new, though they didn’t match. As much as this place wore on Combeferre's senses, he could appreciate why Jehan loved it. All of Jehan’s good friends were gabbing and drinking, aside from Courfeyrac, the only human of the group.

Joly and Bossuet sat side by side, as per usual. Joly, the smaller of the two, occasionally glanced into the reflection of his glass with his one large eye, clearly concerned by something he saw there. His companion was a demon like Combeferre, though a demon of a different sort. The long, twisted, red-streaked horns on his bald forehead indicated that he had used his powers much more often over the course of his life than Combeferre ever had. Like Combeferre, Bossuet’s powers were mostly involuntary and required a great deal of focus to restrain. As a demon of misfortune, Bossuet often cast his own power on himself as a form of restraining himself from casting it on others.

The cyclops and his demon companion sat very close, occasionally leaning on one another as they bent forward to listen to the story of the man across from them. This was Grantaire, who had been telling his story since Combeferre entered. Combeferre could have sworn that Grantaire hadn’t taken a single breath since. With a glass of wine in hand and dark stubble on his chin, Grantaire might have looked perfectly human if one didn’t look beneath the table and notice his hooves.

Bossuet noticed Combeferre and gave him a little smile, and Combeferre returned a knowing look. Grantaire mostly spoke to hear his own voice, but Joly and Bossuet were happy to keep him company.

There was Bahorel again, and in his branches was a small, stocky redhead with thick sideburns and a scraggly beard. Those human-raised, Feuilly was proud of his dwarven heritage and did his best to emulate his ancestral culture, even if his chin disagreed with his attempts to grow any more than a bit of stubble.

Feuilly looked down at Combeferre and gave an easy, casual wave. Combeferre nodded with a smile.

“Well, that’s all of the invitées,” said Jehan. “I think it’s time for a round.”

While the rest of the party drank, Combeferre mostly stayed quiet and listened to the others. Though he was occasionally prompted to speak, no one was worried by his silence; they knew he wasn’t much for small-talk, but he was a good listener.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise, then, that within the hour Grantaire had ended up moving to sit next to him. It was just them and Bossuet left at the table; the others had gone to dance, but Grantaire was barely sober enough to walk, and Bossuet insisted that he was no good at dancing.

Combeferre watched the dance floor. Bahorel was in the middle of it, surrounded by patrons who had seen Feuilly sitting in his branches and wanted the opportunity to be picked up by the giant. Bahorel took it in stride, chuckling in a deep voice as his leaves swayed to the beat.

While Combeferre’s eyes were occupied, his ears picked up every word of Grantaire’s monologue. Though Grantaire was too drunk to do much else, he could always weave stories. It was about what Combeferre had expected to hear-- another boastful yet tragic tale about a near-sexual-encounter with a maenad-- but Combeferre was more impressed by the satyr’s artistic language than the content of his story. Grantaire should write a book, Combeferre thought. Then he could tell his stories for as long as he likes, not being confined to the schedules of the few who listen to him.

As Combeferre’s eyes scanned the dance floor, they eventually returned to the very edge of it, right beside the bar. The blond was still sitting there, though he was now talking to a couple of Supernaturals who barely gave him a second glance. Combeferre noticed a detail he hadn’t even registered before in the dim lighting: a clipboard and a pen, gripped in the doll’s thin hands. He held the pen and clipboard out to the others, but they both ignored him.

“Who _is_ that?” Combeferre couldn’t help but wonder aloud.

“That’s Enjolras.”

Combeferre blinked in surprise; he hadn’t expected Grantaire to interrupt his own monologue and answer the murmured question. When Combeferre turned, he saw that the drunken satyr’s eyes were as wide as grapes and telescope-focused on the doll at the bar.

“He comes here twice a week, sometimes more,” Grantaire continued. “Never drinks anything stronger than coffee. Always trying to get people on board with his causes.” Without skipping a beat, Grantaire turned to Bossuet and resumed his story, as though he had never broken from it. Bossuet, more drunk than he’d ever been in his life, was none the wiser.

Causes? Combeferre grew more curious about this “Enjolras” by the second. Then again, he knew it was a bad idea to linger on his fascination. Speculating only poured more molten heat into Combeferre’s body, provoking him to grind his lower lip between his teeth. This violent emotion was only getting worse, and Combeferre was wracking his brain for every coping skill that had ever helped hold him back.

And while his brain fought hard to reel itself back in, his body stood seemingly of its own accord. Grantaire, engrossed in his drunken story, and Bossuet, drunkenly engrossed in Grantaire’s story, didn’t notice. Combeferre wasn’t any more aware of it than they were. But sure enough, the blond doll started to appear closer and closer in Combeferre’s field of vision. His feet moved unbeknownst to him.

Then those blue eyes looked into his. And he froze.

Perhaps he’d gotten a contact high from that fairy dust, after all.

“Hello,” Enjolras greeted carefully. His smooth, steady voice lowered Combeferre further into his stupor. “Are you here to join the cause?”

Combeferre, dumbfounded, nodded. “Of course. Absolutely.”

Enjolras gave him a relieved smile, and that smile was enough to keep Combeferre distracted for the moment being. “Thank you. Just sign here.”

Combeferre took the pen that Enjolras handed to him. Their fingers brushed, and Combeferre couldn’t help the tremble that ran through his back. Combeferre reached toward the paper. He was halfway through signing his name when he started to read the paper, bringing him back into a semblance of reality.

“Wait,” said Combeferre. “...Could you tell me what I’m signing?”

Enjolras’s smile fell. “It’s a petition against the criminalization of werewolf transformation in public spaces.”

“Oh,” Combeferre said warily. “...Should that be legal?”

Enjolras’s brows furrowed. “Of course. The transformation is involuntary and natural. Do we criminalize other bodily functions?”

“In public, yes, we do criminalize some bodily functions,” Combeferre pointed out. “Not to mention that transforming into a wolf in a public space is much more dangerous than, say, public urination. I’d argue it’s more dangerous than public intoxication.”

“There’s no evidence to suggest that,” Enjolras shot back. Combeferre felt another kind of fire building beneath the surface; it was no longer that horrid heat, but instead something exhilarating. “More people have been struck by lightning in the past fifteen years than have been attacked by a werewolf in their wolf state. Besides, transformation can’t be stopped. A werewolf can’t delay their transformation until it’s more convenient.”

Combeferre shook his head. “But they know when they’re going to transform. One day out of each month. They could stay home when they know it’s going to happen.”

Enjolras took a step closer to Combeferre. He set the clipboard down and started using hand gestures to emphasize his point. “There are impoverished people who can’t afford to take off a specific day every month. Added to the fact that the poverty rate among SNs is higher than among the human population, and the negative stereotypes regarding werewolves that often keep them out of education and higher-paying positions, it’s impractical. It is cruel to arrest a single mother living shift-to-shift because she sprouted some extra fur.”

Combeferre got a bit closer, simply to be nearer to Enjolras. He had a good eight inches on the other man, and he momentarily worried about intimidating him, but Enjolras showed no sign of hesitation, so he proceeded. “It’s not like a werewolf can do their job on those days.”

“That’s not true. Despite popular misconception, werewolves don’t turn into full wolves; they’re still able to stand on their hind legs and use their hands for fine motor function even while transformed. In fact, plenty of manual jobs benefit from a werewolf's particular skillset. Any other belief is merely a product of SN-phobia.” There was that word again. Somehow Combeferre found it less grating coming out of another Supernatural's mouth, but it still did nothing to convince him.

The two were face-to-face now, mere inches between them, and for once, the heat inside of Combeferre felt right. Enjolras’s blue eyes met his evenly, and Combeferre could tell through those eyes that there was a fire raging inside of Enjolras, too.

“Source?”

Combeferre blinked in surprise as Enjolras stepped back, reaching into his pocket for his phone. Enjolras’s voice hadn’t been harsh during their little back-and-forth, but it was more pleasant as he scrolled through some apps and said: “Give me your number. I’ll send you some sources.”

Combeferre’s brows lifted. “Really?”

“Of course. I’m not going to go around making unsourced claims, and it’s my job to educate people about the issues. What’s your number?”

Combeferre was cautious about giving out his information, but the thrilling warmth that this doll made him feel made it easy for him to divulge the number. The doll's fine rubber fingers made a slightly harder tapping noise against his phone than human skin, though they also moved with greater dexterity.

“Who do you work for?” asked Combeferre.

“Myself.” At Combeferre’s confusion, Enjolras clarified. “Technically, I’m a university student, and my intention is to go into law. However, my _real_ occupation is politics.”

“Then why not go into politics?”

“How many Supernatural politicians have you heard of?”

Combeferre had to admit that Enjolras had a point there. He had to concentrate to come up with an answer. “...Senator Lamarque.”

“And Senator Lamarque is a champion for the oppressed. Don’t you think so?”

“I like his policies,” Combeferre replied vaguely.

Enjolras nodded his approval. “Senator Lamarque is making history in the government. My job is to make history out on the streets.”

Combeferre’s brows furrowed. He had heard of the self-proclaimed revolutionaries roaming Paris, typically in news stories that exposed cases of violence and vandalism they had committed. He didn’t want to think that this beautiful man could be one of those, so he resolved not to ask any further questions. On the other hand, he had no other reply to offer. The question burned on his mind; would someone really be that open about such a thing? Admittedly, the thought intrigued him, and something about it seemed fitting. In his mind, two ideas about this man were forming: one completely innocuous, and the other incredibly dangerous.

Thankfully, he was saved by Jehan’s slurred call: “Com’ferre! Who's that? We’re having cake without you!”

Enjolras glanced over at Jehan and the rest of the crew across the Corinthe. His eyes settled on each of them for a moment, except Grantaire. “I’d better let you get back to what you were doing,” the blond said, turning away in his seat. “Get back to me when you’ve read those sources. Pay careful attention to the second one especially.”

“Thanks. Will do,” Combeferre replied. He headed back over to the others, taking his previous seat. When Feuilly brought out the cake, the little group began singing, and some of the bar’s other patrons joined in.

As cake was passed around, Combeferre felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out for just long enough to see that Enjolras had sent him a long text with multiple linked sources. As he put his phone away, Combeferre was determined to put his thoughts about the strange blond away, too. If Enjolras was a revolutionary, Combeferre would be horrified. If he wasn’t, Combeferre would be disappointed.

Better to leave it be. He would read the sources, reconsider his opinion on werewolves, and let that be the extent of this stranger’s influence on him.

So why wasn’t the warmth in his cheeks going away? And why didn’t he want it to?


	2. Couch Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another plot-based chapter. In case you haven't noticed, this'll be a slower burn than most typical smut. How much build-up can there be before it's not considered porn with plot anymore?
> 
> Sorry it's a little short, I had major writer's block getting this one out there and honestly I think it's worth it to start working on the next. Hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Combeferre woke up with a massive headache. He hadn’t had a drop of liquor, but he found himself unable to sleep throughout most of the night. His mind had been occupied with the sources that Enjolras had sent him -- but more than that, he couldn’t stop thinking about Enjolras himself. Doing so only flooded Combeferre with more and more of that horrible heat, which made his memory fuzzy as he woke up to the light that filtered through his bedroom window.

He put on his glasses and peered through the blinds. His eyes were stabbed by a sun that had already fully risen. It must have been past noon. Where did the time go? Combeferre vaguely remembered reading the sources, which took almost no time at all thanks to Combeferre’s quick reading aptitude.

But the sources had only further perplexed him and piqued his curiosity. As evidenced by the number of tabs overloading his laptop, Combeferre had spent hours delving further into the topic of werewolf transformation.

And as evidenced by his phone notifications, he had also texted these sources back and forth with Enjolras before passing out around four in the morning, mid-conversation.

Now that Combeferre had his wits about him, he resolved to mute that text conversation. He had promised himself that he would just look at the sources and let that be the end of it. So he was wrong about werewolf transformation; he could own up to that mistake and move on without spending any more of his mental real estate on this potential rioter.

Combeferre gulped down an Ibuprofen without water, skimmed a brush through his hair, and opened his bedroom door. At the same moment, Courfeyrac came out of his room, rubbing the sleep from his still-red-tinted eyes. Fairy dust always knocked him out for at least twelve hours. The two nearly ran into each other as they both came into the hallway. They stood directly face-to-face, eyes half-squinted from the dim hallway light. Combeferre quickly looked away.

“Hey Ferre,” Courfeyrac mumbled before making his way to the kitchen. “Sup? Did you sleep in that?”

Combeferre’s brows furrowed as he vaguely recognized that he was still wearing the clothes he had on yesterday. They were wrinkled and pliable from their impromptu use as pajamas.

Combeferre opened his mouth, but he had trouble finding the voice in his throat. His tongue tasted strange from his uneasy sleep. Time felt too fast; he could already hear the coffee machine start up.

“Hey, what happened last night?” Courfeyrac continued.

“What do you remember?”

Courfeyrac paused for a long moment, thinking very hard. After a few moments, he laughed at himself. “Well, I went to lunch with Jehan. And then, uh…guess I got back here somehow.”

Combeferre let out a heavy breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He gradually made his way toward the kitchen, letting the scent of ground coffee beans guide him more than his sight. “You did appear to be in an affected state of mind.”

“That fairy dust, man. Wicked stuff,” Courfeyrac said with a lazy chuckle. He checked his phone, and his casual smile split into a grimace. “Aw, shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“R’s gonna be here any minute to work on our Diversity in Politics project. Just look at me; I’m not ready to be seen.”

Combeferre opened the fridge. Hopefully some food would take his mind off of his sore head until the Ibuprofen kicked in. “Grantaire’s in that class?”

“Yeah. He hasn’t taken a social sciences class for his gen ed yet and this was the only introductory-level course without a waiting list this semester.”

Combeferre nodded. Of course Grantaire would use any excuse he could to explain taking a political science course. Combeferre had heard whispers here and there from the others about some pretty boy Grantaire had taken to practically stalking around the social sciences building, but any word from the satyr himself was not forthcoming. Grantaire couldn’t possibly recover from gaining a reputation as someone who actually  _ enjoyed _ politics.

All of this was to say that Combeferre wasn’t surprised at all that Grantaire would take a political science course, once he had really considered the facts of the situation. He was more surprised, and pleasantly so, to find that there was still jam in the fridge. He could put some on a croissant.

As Combeferre prepared his croissant, Courfeyrac went back to his room to get ready for Grantaire’s arrival. It was a pleasant day, Combeferre thought. A new day. A good day to put last night’s events behind him. In fact, the best thing to do would be to stop thinking about last night altogether. But all that knowledge did was make Combeferre think about  _ not _ thinking about last night, and that wasn’t helpful at all. He took absent-minded bites of his croissant, trying to root himself in the present moment.

Even so, it took him a few seconds to notice the knock at the door. It must be Grantaire. Combeferre pondered the idea of hiding in his room and letting Courfeyrac answer the door when he was ready. On the other hand, Combeferre and Grantaire were far from strangers; they’d seen each other in worse shape. Moreover, some of the things Grantaire had said last night gave Combeferre the urge to pick his brain for more, in spite of his better judgement.

So Combeferre opened the door. And sure enough, there stood Grantaire, looking to be in his usual condition -- which was not that far off from how Courfeyrac looked the morning after a fairy dust binge.

Even so, it was Grantaire who looked stunned by Combeferre’s state rather than the other way around. The satyr’s eyes widened, and he snorted to himself a little before regaining composure. “Ferre, buddy. What have you been up to? You look, uh…” Grantaire was unable to help another snort.

“Come in,” Combeferre said flatly, to which Grantaire smirked and stepped inside. “And don’t throw stones when you live in a glass house. When was the last time you washed those jeans?”

Grantaire looked down at the article in question, turning his hooves to get a good look at the variously colored stains and poorly located tears in the seams. “I’ll have you know that these are new,” said Grantaire as he plopped himself down on the couch. “Well, new to me. You can call any old pair of jeans ‘distressed’ and everyone thinks they’re supposed to look this way.”

“You sound proud of that,” Combeferre commented.

“Perhaps I am. It’s clever. Not everyone lives up to a doctor’s standards, you know. Including yourself, so it seems.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Hmm...rum and coke.” After receiving a sideways glance, Grantaire sighed. “If that’s not available, could I have some water?”

Combeferre nodded and prepared a glass. “It’s too early to be drinking alcohol.”

“Yes, and it’s too late to have just woken up.”

“Well, it  _ is _ a Sunday,” Combeferre pointed out. “And I was at a party late last night.” The two made steady eye contact as Combeferre handed Grantaire the glass of water. “At Frank ‘n’ Stein. You were there.”

“I remember,” Grantaire mumbled. He brought the glass close to his lips, but he never quite seemed to sip it.

Combeferre turned away and headed back into the kitchenette, not quite out of sight of the couch in the living area. From what he knew about Courfeyrac, it would be a while before his roommate considered himself properly groomed and ready to be seen. Combeferre busied himself by pretending to put things away around the kitchenette, although everything was already in its place. He occasionally glanced at Grantaire, who was always looking right at him when he looked over. It was as if Grantaire knew the demon had something he wanted to say.

And Combeferre did have something he wanted to say. The problem was that he couldn’t justify saying it -- or rather, asking it. He didn’t want to give that blond doll with the sharp blue eyes any more headspace if he could help it. A guy like that could only mean trouble.

But then, surely just  _ asking _ about the guy wouldn’t do any harm. He wasn’t committing to anything. He was simply curious. Who could blame him? It’s not every day that one stumbles upon a living doll, much less a living doll simply walking about with no owner in sight. Grantaire certainly seemed to know a thing or two about this doll, which didn’t come as a surprise; Grantaire knew a thing or two about most people. If anyone could inform Combeferre about the potential risks of getting to know this stranger, it would be Grantaire.

Combeferre cleared his throat to let Grantaire know he had something to say -- not that Grantaire wasn’t already expecting it. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about--”

Grantaire shook his head. “Don’t bother. Enjolras is passionate about politics and little else. No interest. Probably asexual. Aphrodite and Eros alike wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Combeferre leaned over the sink, hiding his head. “I’m not interested in him in that way.”

Grantaire leaned back. “Of course not.” The satyr waited for a few moments for Combeferre to speak up or turn back toward him, but the other man was stock-still. Grantaire crossed a leg over his knee, the cloven toes of his dark hoof catching the overhead light. His voice went low. “Okay. Yes, he is a revolutionary. Yes, he is completely radical. And yes, he does all of the scary things that those people do. But that won’t persuade you.”

“I don’t need any persuading,” Combeferre replied as he slowly drifted out from the kitchenette. “I figured as much about him. I’ll stay away. Shame, though. It seems the ones with the most potential always waste it on violence.”

“Not always. I had lots of potential, but instead of violence, I wasted it on an art history degree.”

“Do you think you’ll go to grad school?”

Grantaire grunted something akin to a laugh. “With an art history degree?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a little late to start applying.”

“Not right after uni, then. But in the future?”

Grantaire let out a deep sigh, thinking. “I don’t know. Not if it means I’ll have to move very far.”

Combeferre’s eyebrows furrowed. “I thought you never liked Paris.”

“That’s still true.” Grantaire shook his head. “You don’t get it. Ferre, I’ve already been sucked into his trap.”

Combeferre uneasily moved to sit on the other end of the couch. “Whose trap?”

“My good man, you ought to know. You have a very small window of time to escape from him yourself. Spend much more time lingering about and listening to his ideals and you won’t be able to help but follow him.”

Combeferre could feel his shoulders involuntarily tense. “You don’t mean…”

“I do.”

“I, um…” The demon swallowed thickly, tapping his fingers on his thighs. “Oh. I didn’t realize.” He looked over at Grantaire, but the satyr no longer met his gaze; his grape-green eyes instead lost themselves in the minute reflections that danced on the surface of his still-full water glass. Hesitancy built in the air between them, and the burden fell on Combeferre to break it.

He could only manage a half-whisper. “You aren’t a revolutionary, are you?”

Grantaire’s lips pulled back, revealing jagged white teeth. But the satyr wasn’t upset by the question; he laughed raucously, finally meeting Combeferre’s confused gaze. “No, no. Gods. Too much work for what is certain to be no reward at all.”

The sudden laughter melted the secrecy and tension out of Combeferre’s muscles. Grantaire settled, taking a long breath before he continued. “I’ll tell you what though, I could listen to him give his speeches all day. It’s like a train gone off the rails in the middle of nowhere. Beautiful, lonely, and absolutely fucking tragic.”

A tap on the shoulder made Combeferre nearly jump out of his seat. He turned around to see it was merely Courfeyrac, dressed to the nines with meticulously combed hair. This was a typical look for his roommate, and that was without even leaving the house.

“Didn’t mean to scare ya,” Courfeyrac said lightheartedly, though his grin was apologetic. “You two talking about Grantaire’s poli-sci boy?”

Combeferre sliced the air in a negative gesture. “Just about someone we encountered at the bar last night.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Eh, well, they’re one and the same, so.”

Combeferre could feel himself short-circuit in real time. He had to wait for his brain to reset before he managed to verbalize his confusion. “...What?”

But the question was too quiet, and too much time had passed, because now Grantaire was asking if Courfeyrac had the grading rubric for their partner assignment. Or maybe Grantaire had heard the question but had decided to let Combeferre process this information for himself. Either way, Combeferre was absolutely shocked, but he had no idea how to adequately express it.

And so he sat with that new knowledge. If Enjolras was the man that Grantaire had been pining after in the social science building of the university that they all attended, then that meant Enjolras must attend their university as well. How long had that been the case? Did the school know about his illegal activities? And why had Combeferre never seen him before?

Combeferre couldn’t grasp a single answer to any of the questions running through his mind, but he knew one thing for certain. If Enjolras was another student at the university, then there was a chance that Combeferre could run into him again, whether he intended to or not. And if that happened...well, that was another question Combeferre couldn’t answer.

After politely excusing himself, Combeferre headed back to his room. He didn’t have time to sit on the couch and wonder all day. He had his own assignments to take care of, after all, and tomorrow was a school day. He didn’t even  _ want _ to see Enjolras, much less keep thinking about him like this. All of his curiosities could wait.

That said, Combeferre knew his curiosity was bound to grab hold of him sooner or later. It always did. Less than an hour after he had retired to his room, he found Enjolras’s social media presence through the school’s Instagram account -- and promptly banned himself from browsing all social media for the rest of the day.

And when he opened his messages and incidentally noticed that he’d gotten another text from the man himself, he banned himself from that, too. Try as he might to avoid it, Combeferre had a gut feeling that danger would continue to follow him.


	3. An Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I live in Texas and everything has been cancelled because of the winter storm. I am safe, though my car has been totaled. I'm fortune enough to have internet connection some of the time, and I've had a lot of time to do nothing but write. Just know that the next two chapters are already finished and queued up.

“Come on, you’ll _love_ Jacques.”

“You say that about everyone you introduce me to,” Combeferre pointed out.

Courfeyrac smirked. “Have I been wrong before?”

It was Monday after class, and Courfeyrac had asked Combeferre if he was going to some party or another this weekend. Combeferre hadn’t heard of the party or its host, but either way, he wasn’t interested. He wouldn’t be missing out on anything; for all of the gabbering about their parties being rare and exclusive, the frat boys somehow found the time and resources to host one every other weekend and invite just about everyone on campus with a plus-one. And he’d just been at Jehan’s thing, which had satisfied Combeferre’s need to party for at least another six months. Still, he had made the mistake of letting Courfeyrac know that he had never met the party’s host, Jacques, which was an unforgivable affront that now had to be amended.

And Courfeyrac had a point; he hadn’t led Combeferre astray yet when it came to meeting new people. Courfeyrac held good company.

“You’re sure we can’t meet with him some other time?” asked Combeferre. “I’m sure he’s got his own schedule.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ferre. I texted him a couple minutes ago, he just got out of Biomechanics. You’re sure you’ve never met? I would’ve thought pre-med and kinesthesiology would have huge overlap.”

Combeferre shrugged. “There are many Jacques out there, but I’m certain we’ve never formally met.”

“Well then, it’s time to get _fh_ ormal,” Courfeyrac crooned, emphasizing the last word with a pretentious accent. Seeing Combeferre swallow nervously, Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “I’m kidding. Jacques’s chill. Talk about the cardio-vestibular system or something, you’ll do great.”

“Cardiovascular,” Combeferre corrected.

“I’ll leave it to you experts to discuss such things.”

“Ey, C-Rac, what is going _on_?” called a boisterous voice from the other end of the hall. A few students in the corridor were evidently unimpressed by the loud entrance, but those who recognized the voice smiled. A mop of dirty blonde hair mostly covered the student athlete’s eyes, highlighting his emphatic grin. He greeted more students on the way down the hall, and Combeferre saw the young man give multiple other athletes what Combeferre had heard of as a “bro-shake.”

This put Combeferre a little more on guard than was already warranted by the ever-present heat boiling within him. He knew that university was different -- he’d had that proven to him on many occasions -- but the nerdy high schooler somewhere inside of him had never adjusted comfortably to companionship with super-masculine guys, especially after getting his ass handed to him for coming out to one.

Combeferre reasoned with himself: they were all adults, and at a fairly liberal institution at that. More than half of his best friends had taught him that he couldn’t count people out because of first impressions. And really, this guy seemed nice, if a little obnoxious. Attractive, even.

Wait. What? Combeferre had to catch himself. He’d never been particularly drawn to blonde hair before; that was a very recent development. He found himself politely balancing an appropriate amount of eye contact with the need to avert his gaze as Jacques grew closer, giving Courfeyrac one of those “bro-shakes.” Since when did Courfeyrac do those?

“Jackie, I cannot _believe_ that you and my roommate here have not met!” Courfeyrac said with a gesture in Combeferre’s direction. “This is Guillaume, but everyone-- and I do mean everyone-- calls him Combeferre, except for the ones who call him Ferre.”

“Ey, C-Ferre!” Jacques extended a brash hand in Combeferre’s direction. Combeferre only managed a terse nod, but Jacques didn’t mind at all. “Looking good, man, looking familiar. Were you in anatomy last fall?”

“I was.” Combeferre could vaguely recognize Jacques now. He always sat in the back of class while Combeferre positioned himself up front (blame a combination of vestigial teacher’s pet syndrome and near-sightedness), so he’d never really gotten a good look at the guy.

“Man, your presentation on irregularities in endocrine development was straight fire. I was talking to my boys about it for days.”

Combeferre’s brows lifted in pleasant surprise. “Really? I was certain even Dr. Forest fell asleep listening to it.”

“Nah man, me and my boys, we can’t get enough of that shit.” Jacques pointed casually at Combeferre. “Hey, I got an idea. You pull up more research on intersex conditions, you educate me and the guys all about it at our party, how’s that sound?”

“Um, I, well…” Combeferre looked to Courfeyrac, who gave him a proud smile and the most subtle of nods. “Sure, that sounds great.”

Combeferre was thankful that his dark skin tone hid the undercurrent of red rising in his cheeks. He absentmindedly swiped his hair away from his face, feeling the sharp point of his mistake as he did so. One of his shallow horns was now revealed, glinting like a tooth under the unflattering overhead light.

Jacques’s easygoing smile suddenly tightened. He tried to quickly hide the widening of his eyes, and he did so gracefully, but Combeferre still caught onto it plain as day.

Courfeyrac was oblivious to Jacques’s shift in behavior, only speaking to fill the unprecedented silence. “So, what are the deets?”

Jacques cleared his throat as he turned his eyes to Courfeyrac, clearly thankful to have someone else to focus his attention on. Combeferre was a master of hiding his own change in attitude, but he could feel the usual heat within him rising, along with some other kind of frustration that was equally familiar to him: the frustration of being who he was and having others react to it.

Courfeyrac continued. “How about you get Ferre’s number? I know you collect them. You can send him the invite.”

“Actually, uh...I think it’ll be easier if I just text you the invite, C-Rac. You can forward it to him,” said Jacques. “I’m trying to, ah, not collect so many numbers. It’s making it really hard to organize my contacts, you know?”

What came out of Jacques’s mouth next was the fakest laugh that Combeferre had ever heard. He retreated into himself, knowing that externalizing his feelings would end in some form of demonic disaster. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to do. Smack this guy? No, that wasn’t it. Smack himself for getting his hopes up? That wasn’t it, either. Whatever it was, he had to keep it tightly locked.

The rest of Courfeyrac and Jacques’s conversation passed him by without any conscious thought. It wasn’t like he was involved in the conversation anymore, anyway; Jacques didn’t say another word in his direction. It wasn’t until Courfeyrac said Combeferre’s name that he returned to the world. “So...what do you think?”

“He doesn’t like me,” Combeferre replied matter-of-factly.

“What? You’ve got to be kidding! He said he liked your presentation.”

Combeferre sighed. “You really didn’t notice what happened when he saw my horns?”

Courfeyrac’s brows furrowed. “Uh...no. What happened?”

“I don’t know how to describe it. He got tense.”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “It must be your imagination, Ferre. Jacques and I had a deep conversation just last week about why vampires should be allowed to donate blood. He does a lot of work for the Fae Coalition.”

“So what you’re saying is that he postures.”

“No, not at all! Ferre, of all the other humans I know, he’s one of the _least_ SN-phobic.”

There was that word again. Combeferre sighed heavily. “Let’s move on.”

“Alright,” Courfeyrac replied carefully. “This was your last class for the day, right? I can drive us back.”

“Actually, I told Dr. Bernard I’d help organize some papers for her before her five o’ clock.”

“All the way over in the soc-sci building, then? I can walk with you, if--”

“No thanks,” Combeferre said shortly. Then, to avoid raising suspicion: “Bossuet’s expecting your help with a project for his major, isn’t he?”

“Oh shoot, that’s right! Thanks for reminding me.” Courfeyrac checked his phone. “I’m surprised he hasn’t texted about it. I hope he’s okay.”

“You’d better go check,” Combeferre replied earnestly. Bossuet had a tendency to get into trouble through no real doing of his own.

Courfeyrac took off down the hallway, and Combeferre walked toward the exit on the opposite side of the building. He kept a calm pace, but a storm brewed within him. He tried to push his brain into the eye of it, organizing his thoughts. For all of his talk about SN-phobia and somehow understanding Supernaturals even better than his Supernatural roommate, Courfeyrac was blind to the daily situations that surrounded him in a way that Combeferre was unwillingly privy to.

Courfeyrac was equally blind to Combeferre’s blatant lies. Combeferre hadn’t promised Dr. Bernard anything; they hadn’t had a single conversation since he took one of her classes last semester to fill his social studies requirement. There was someone else in the social sciences building that he was after. Someone who would just _get_ what Combeferre was experiencing, perhaps more so than Combeferre himself.

* * *

Enjolras sighed at the corkboard he had been trying to jam a poster into for the last solid minute. The cork was just too stiff, or maybe Enjolras was poking it in a bad spot; either way, the tack did not want to go in. Of all of the things he had to do today, he did not anticipate that this would be the most difficult.

“Can I help?”

Enjolras turned his head toward the voice, recognizing it even before he saw the face of the satyr next to him. Grantaire offered a cheeky grin that was becoming all too familiar to the blond, whose own expression changed very little.

Enjolras nodded in greeting. “Grantaire. You’re certain you want to help this time?”

“Absolutely,” Grantaire replied with a grandiose arm movement. “Anything for The Cause.”

Enjolras took a calm breath. His words weren’t angry; rather, he spoke in an overly matter-of-fact, careful manner. Grantaire knew that Enjolras was handling him with kid gloves, but he pretended not to care. “And you mean it this time?”

“Of course.”

“Because last time, you didn’t bring the papers to the meeting.”

“Right.”

“And the time before that, you gave the freshmen the wrong room number.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And before that, it was…” Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment, long and delicate lashes shielding an unspoken exasperation. “Dominoes.”

“I don’t play with dominoes anymore,” Grantaire retorted. “Boring game for old people. Hey, you’re old, right?”

Enjolras took great care to place the poster and its corresponding tack down on the bench in front of him. Now was not a good time to hold a sharp object. He clasped his hands together, treading on his words as though they were eggshells. “I was created in 1942, so if you consider that ‘old,’ then yes.” Grantaire was about to speak, but Enjolras steadily held out a finger, and by some miracle, it worked. “My concern is not so much with the specific game that you were playing. It’s more so the fact that you had promised me you would be attending the cultural heritage club’s weekly meeting at that time as a representative of our new club, and instead, you were playing a game.”

Grantaire put a hand to his chest in a sworn oath. “That won’t happen again, Enj. You can trust me on this one. I want this club to succeed just as much as you do.”

On one hand, Enjolras had a hard time believing that. On the other hand, Grantaire was the only person who had willingly joined Enjolras’s club thus far, and he was the only regular attendee. He wasn’t the kind of attendee that Enjolras had been expecting when he first conceived of the club, but something made Enjolras want to believe in Grantaire. To help him be better.

“Grantaire,” said Enjolras, “why did you join this club?”

“Well, you,” Grantaire replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it would have been, to anyone but Enjolras. “You’re fun to watch, and stuff.”

“Fun to watch,” Enjolras echoed. He sighed, looking down at his unhung posters. He wouldn’t show it, but defeat clouded his blue eyes. If all this club was good for was being fun to watch, maybe this school wasn’t a viable recruiting grounds for new revolutionaries after all.

Grantaire chewed on his lip, feeling a little bad. “And you make me think hard about things. That’s why I talk back all the time. You say things not a lot of people are willing to, and I think that’s really bold.”

Enjolras lifted his head. “Alright. Grantaire, if you want to help out, could you hand these out?” The blond reached into his packed messenger bag, taking no time at all to find a stack of flyers amongst the many notebooks and papers he kept with him. “They’re new flyers for the club. We really need to work on getting the word out.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Grantaire replied without skipping a beat, jauntily swiping the flyers out of Enjolras’s hand. “Leave it to me, boss.”

“I’m not your boss,” Enjolras replied uneasily.

“Of course not,” said Grantaire. “You know, Enj? I don’t know if you’ve considered this, but maybe your club could use a rebrand.” Enjolras merely lifted an eyebrow, waiting for the satyr to continue. “The whole Civil Revolution Club for the Progress of Personkind thing, it’s really out-there and thought-provoking. And that’s no good. People are sheep, and I’m saying that as a goat-man. They don’t want to join something that they know is going to challenge them. Have you considered a name that’s, I don’t know, more approachable? Like, Friends of...I don’t know, Communism, or whatever you’re going for.”

“The people here need to be challenged,” Enjolras retorted. “Everyone needs to be challenged if there’s going to be any sort of progress made toward an ideal society. There will always be more progressing to do, so we must always be amenable to change. We have to practice open-mindedness.”

Grantaire leaned back on one of his hooves and mumbled, “yeah well, maybe you could practice open-mindedness when I suggest changing the club name.”

Enjolras was still thinking of his reply when he heard footsteps behind the two of them. He briefly glanced back, only to fully turn around when he saw who it was.

A very tall student with two shiny white horns shyly peering out from under a swath of curls and a pair of archaically round glasses magnifying his void-dark eyes. Combeferre from the SN bar.

Enjolras was taken aback by the sight of him. The changes in Enjolras’s expression were subtle; his eyes seemed to take on a new glint, his lips parted microscopically in awe, and although his posture was always upright, there was a sudden additional alertness. He gave off the impression of a cat whose owner had just entered the room -- not willing to show any pleasure outright, but with an undercurrent of interest.

Combeferre did not catch onto this, because he was busy processing his own feelings at the sight of Enjolras. Even though he’d been looking for the other man, he had mostly expected not to run into him. A part of him thought Grantaire had been pranking him when he said Enjolras went to their school. Still, the frustration he had been harboring on the way to the social sciences building audibly evaded him in the form of a surprised, “oh.” He now had some suspicions about his sudden fondness for blonde hair.

Grantaire noticed the static charge between the two men immediately. He made a graceless hocking noise that resembled clearing his throat. “Well, I was just about to wander down to my dorm; I’ve got a very important meeting with Mary Jane. I’d love for either of you to meet her, but somehow I don’t think you’d be fans. Combeferre, good to see you; Enj, a pleasure as always.”

Enjolras broke his gaze with Combeferre to address the satyr. “The flyers?”

“The what?” Grantaire appeared startled at the sight of papers in his hand. “Ah, oh, yes. I’ll hand them out, don’t even sweat it Enj. In fact…” Grantaire pressed one of the flyers against Combeferre’s chest, to which the taller man practically jumped back. “Here you go. I’m off now. You two kids have fun, don’t get in too much trouble.” He gave Combeferre a heavy pat on the shoulder, unknowingly sending bitter jolts through the demon’s instinctual nerves before hurrying off with the rest of the papers.

Enjolras watched Grantaire clop away. “I really hope he hands out those flyers,” he muttered to himself.

Combeferre held his flyer where Grantaire had left it, not looking at it. Unthinkingly, he folded it into his pocket. His eyes didn’t leave Enjolras. “Um...hello.”

“Hi.” Enjolras’s demeanor reset itself, returning to a more neutral state. “I didn’t know you went here. Did you get my sources about vampire blood donation?”

Combeferre’s teeth grazed the inside of his cheek. He remembered that he hadn’t checked any of Enjolras’s texts yet, which in turn reminded him that he had strictly been trying _not_ to involve Enjolras in his daily affairs. Or rather, trying not to involve himself in whatever Enjolras’s daily affairs consisted of. After thinking for a moment, he replied, “it seems to be a very popular issue right now.”

“It’s been a problem for a long time, but it only recently picked up steam after the bombing at the Human-SN Love Convention.”

Combeferre’s eyes widened. He immediately reached for his glasses, wiping them off; he was not ready for this kind of discussion. “The what?”

“Hate crime,” Enjolras said simply. “I’ll send you an article. After that, the hospital was low on blood, the vampires weren’t allowed to donate to their injured human partners, and someone on Twitter pointed out the irony. So now people are finally talking about it.”

“Wow, that’s...tragic.”

“It is,” Enjolras said quietly. “It’s even worse that it takes this sort of tragedy for the public to care about these issues.”

Combeferre nodded his agreement. After a moment, he put his glasses back on; this would be an awkward gear shift. “Hey, could I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“I, uh…” How could he put this? “I’ve been...trying to find some more SN-centric spaces recently. I guess I was just wondering -- I feel like you, of all people, would know -- um…” That wasn’t exactly what Combeferre had been wanting out of this conversation. But then, he didn’t really know what he wanted. A part of him had hoped that Enjolras would just know what he wanted without any words, which was ridiculous and daft.

The sides of Enjolras’s mouth faintly lifted. This drew Combeferre’s attention to the doll’s light pink lips, and the demon felt one of the bubbles boiling in his blood rise to the surface and pop. It confused him. He quickly looked aside, pretending to read the posters on the corkboard. Enjolras didn’t notice that anything was off. “I’ll send you a list. Does text still work for you?”

“Yes,” was all that Combeferre could manage.

Enjolras looked the demon up and down with his rounded glass eyes, but his gaze was not met. Enjolras touched Combeferre’s hand lightly. Combeferre took in a ragged breath, finally making eye contact. “Hey, I’m going to be at the bar this Saturday…”

Combeferre was taken aback, feeling the nature of the conversation shift in a way that he wasn’t sure how to feel about. Was Enjolras about to invite him to the bar? What were the implications of that? And more urgently, how was he supposed to breathe with this doll touching his hand? The contact created warmth underneath Combeferre’s skin, even though the touch was that of cold porcelain. He opened his mouth and steadied his breath, preparing to gently reject the offer.

Then Enjolras quickly broke the point of physical contact he had made, pulling a clipboard out of his bag. “...Petitioning, of course. Around seven I usually go to the backroom to educate and talk about recent issues. You should come. Some SN-centric group leaders will be there, so I can introduce you to them.”

Combeferre’s brows sank along with his heart. He had been about to reject the other man’s advances; why was he disappointed that it was a strictly platonic proposal after all? Why did he think that it would be anything other than platonic? Daft, again.

Combeferre sighed, both in dismay and in relief. “Um, well...I’ve been invited to this party that starts at the same time.”

“Oh,” said Enjolras. “Well, perhaps another time.”

“Well,” Combeferre continued quickly, “I might not go to the party. We’ll see.”

Enjolras nodded. “Alright. We’ll see.”

“Well, I’d better let you get back to what you were doing,” said Combeferre. He didn’t really want to leave, but it didn’t feel right to stay, either. “I’ll see you on Saturday, perhaps.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Enjolras echoed. He turned back to the corkboard, picking up the poster and tack. Combeferre started down the hallway, hands buried in his pockets and fidgeting with their contents. He had gotten halfway down the hall when Enjolras called out to him: “I really do hope to see you there.”

Combeferre turned around briefly. Despite the distance between him and Enjolras, he could see the smile that graced the doll’s lips. Combeferre found it infectious. “I hope I’m able to make it.”

A part of Combeferre really did hope to make it. He didn’t want to go to Jacques’s party, for sure. But Combeferre wasn’t sure how to feel about meeting more Supernaturals. If they were friends of Enjolras, who couldn’t go one conversation without bringing up the latest issue facing Supernatural species, then they were probably radicals, too. That could only breed danger in Combeferre’s life.

But then, just talking to Enjolras didn’t seem all that dangerous. Surely it wouldn’t be any more dangerous to just meet some people, regardless of their politics. Again, Combeferre reminded himself, he wasn’t committing to anything. He just wanted to know more. It would probably be less taxing than having to talk to Jacques again, especially in a room full of unfamiliar partygoers. Though, maybe he didn’t have to do either.

This was how Combeferre justified the situation to himself as he exited the social sciences building. He could either try to have a good time at the party, go listen to some radical politics at the bar, or stay in and take a study night. As for which one he chose...he’d have to wait and see if there’d be anything for him to study that night.


	4. The Art Gallery

One of the gatherings Enjolras had texted to Combeferre -- as part of a long, itemized list -- was an art gallery. The gallery’s webpage described it as “a showcase of local Supernatural artists,” which sounded like a good place to start. Not too political, not too far from Combeferre’s comfort zone, just some paintings and sculptures. Admittedly, Combeferre didn’t know much about art. He had picked up a few interesting bits of knowledge here and there, and he was certainly open to learning more.

Wednesday evening, Combeferre felt ready to be seen. He had closely styled himself to appear as clean and formal as possible. He had also groomed his hair in a way that allowed his small horns to be plainly seen. Looking in the mirror, he had a hard time deciding whether or not he should let his horns out, but Courfeyrac had ultimately persuaded him by pointing out that the artists would probably be more patient with him if they knew right away that he was a fellow Supernatural.

The first problem that Combeferre faced when he arrived at the gallery was his attire; he was overdressed. The suit he’d assumed was the norm for an art gallery stood out amongst the business-casual button-ups and colorful array of slacks. Combeferre reasoned that it was better to overdress than underdress, so he tried not to think too much of it as he entered the showcase room.

The second problem was the art, which Combeferre couldn’t make sense of. Much of it was abstract, and none of it was executed in a way that betrayed any sort of professional, long-cultivated technique. One work in particular caught his eye: a series of paintings with a moon, a set of claws, and a howling silhouette. The brush strokes seemed heavy and haphazard, unpolished. Something that could be found in a children’s book about the Big Bad Wolf.

As he peered at the three paintings with furrowed brows, a scruffy young woman came up next to him. “What do you think?”

Combeferre struggled to find the appropriate words, which left him only with bluntness. “Well...they don’t seem to have taken very long. It’s as though they’re unfinished.”

The young woman frowned slightly. “Uh-huh…”

“And I assume it’s a piece about werewolves, but doesn’t it seem a bit stereotypical? I mean, is this the imagery we want people to associate with werewolves? Their ‘wild side’?”

“I see…”

“Werewolves are just like anyone else. Why do we need to point out what makes them different?”

“Right…” muttered the young woman. Combeferre pulled his gaze away from the paintings to look at her. The snarl in her lip, accented by a pearly canine tooth, made Combeferre realize his mistake.

This was his third problem: he couldn’t seem to avoid criticizing the pieces in front of their artists, without realizing that they were the artists. And none of them seemed to have much patience with his way of thinking; the fact that they knew he was a Supernatural didn’t give him any extra leeway, after all. He was gradually pushed from one piece to the next until he was swept into the midst of the gallery.

At this point, Combeferre had resolved to keep his mouth shut. Next up on the gallery’s hotel-beige wall was hung like a painting, though it was clearly pottery work. Specifically, it was white porcelain, slightly misshapen, with golden filament running through it like cracks. Had the potter broken the piece and tried to repair it? It must have been a nasty fall; the golden cracks were everywhere.

“Combeferre!” The demon swung around at the sound of his name, but he couldn’t find its source. The voice chuckled. “Down here, you big giraffe.”

Before Combeferre even looked down, that statement made him immediately recognize who it was. Feuilly barely reached Combeferre’s waist. Combeferre’s suspicions were confirmed when his gaze dropped and he saw the redhead, who seemed to be all metal gear and elaborate beard-work today. The long twin-tail beard, on close inspection, was obviously just yarn; it wasn’t uncommon to see Feuilly supplement his meager facial hair for important events.

Though what made this event so important, Combeferre wasn’t sure. “Hi, Feuilly. What brings you here?”

“Oh, I came here with Bahorel but lost him. You know how hard it is to find a giant ent in a crowd,” Feuilly replied with a fond smile. “Just kidding. I’m one of the artists!”

“Well, congratulations,” said Combeferre. “Where’s your work?” Combeferre was more than ready to abandon the cracked porcelain, which he had mentally deemed and dismissed as Abstract #148.

Feuilly’s smile broadened. “You’re looking at it!”

Combeferre’s head tilted as he gave the pottery another look. “You made this?”

“Yep. What do you think?”

The question felt like a trap. Combeferre had to think quickly. “It looks...cracked.”

Feuilly laughed briefly. “Yeah, that’s true. It’s intentional.”

Combeferre thought for a long moment, trying to find something else to say about it. Then, he shook his head. He murmured, “I’m sorry, Feuilly. It's nice work, and I’m sure it meant something to you when you made it, but I just don’t think art is for me.”

Feuilly’s smile didn’t waver. “Would you like to know what it meant when I made it?”

“Sure.”

Feuilly stood next to his art, standing on a stepladder that had been provided for him. He still didn’t match Combeferre’s height, but it was easier for them to make eye contact. “It’s called Life of a Dwarven Potter. The technique is called kintsugi; that’s the practice of mending broken pottery using a metal lacquer, which makes the gold crack pattern you see here. It’s a Japanese practice that is used to incorporate brokenness into the pottery’s history, instead of hiding it away.”

“Fascinating, but what does it have to do with dwarven potters specifically?”

“Well, the origin of kintsugi is sort of uncertain. Only recently has evidence come forward to suggest that it actually originated among 15th century Japanese dwarves, who used to primarily work as potters and metalworkers.” Feuilly looked at the pottery, his eyes tracing each crack with a reverence that Combeferre gradually found himself mimicking.

“Now, when I look at kintsugi, I can’t help but think of all of the dwarves whose contributions were lost to history. I find it ironic that the dwarven origins of kintsugi, a technique that highlights the origins of an object, have themselves been hidden away. I wanted to use kintsugi as a metaphor for highlighting the contributions of dwarven culture, and Supernatural cultures at large, instead of concealing them for the convenience of humans.

“So, this piece of pottery is the Life of a Dwarven Potter. And the cracks are all of the messy parts of life and history that have made dwarves into who we are today: resilient, inventive, cracked apart but mended back together.”

“I see.” Once Combeferre’s eyes had taken in each crack with this new understanding in mind, he looked down sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have gotten any of that just from looking at it.”

Feuilly nodded. “That’s okay. Art isn’t just about how the piece itself looks. The value of art comes from its relationship to others -- to the artist and spectators alike. Sometimes it gets its point across, and sometimes it doesn’t. Everyone has their own say in the value and meaning of a piece of art.”

Combeferre took another look around the room and was suddenly astonished. He couldn’t claim that he understood any of the pieces he saw any better than he did before, but now he was curious. Now he knew that there was something in all of those pieces _to_ understand, and that made him want to know more.

Then again, seeing the glances that half of the artists in the gallery threw his way, he figured they probably wouldn’t be interested in bearing the hearts of their work to him now that he’d committed faux pas against them.

“Feuilly,” said Combeferre, “do you know what any of these other pieces mean?”

Feuilly hopped down boisterously from his stepladder, metal boots clanking against the already-squeaky tile floor. “I’ve been hanging around this place since opening night. I’ve gotten to know a couple of the artists. Here, I’ll show you.”

Feuilly led the way back through the gallery, greeting other artists as he passed. The ones that Combeferre had pissed off seemed to soften somewhat once they knew he was a friend of Feuilly; some of them even offered to explain their pieces, while Feuilly explained others from what he remembered about their artists.

A sculpture that was all wings, fins, tentacles, and claws, jumbled together to make a statement about unity among very different Supernatural species. A delicate watercolor portrait of an eye that turned out to belong to a gorgon. A smooth gradient that represented an old siren’s shanty painted into physical form. Combeferre began to genuinely enjoy the art because of the knowledge hidden inside of each creation.

When they got to the series of paintings by the werewolf, the artist was nowhere to be seen. “Éponine must’ve gone out for a smoke,” Feuilly commented. “Well, this is her work. What did you say about it?”

Combeferre felt as though his face would melt with embarrassment. He sighed heavily. “I told her that it looked unfinished and stereotypical,” he said flatly.

To Combeferre’s surprise, the dwarf began to laugh heartily. “Sorry, sorry. Geez Ferre, you sure know how to put your foot in your mouth!”

Combeferre’s shame dissolved as he found his own humor in the situation, cracking a smile. “Yes, I know.”

Feuilly took deep breaths to overcome his laughter. With renewed vigor, he turned his focus to the paintings. “It’s really not stereotypical at all. See, these are pictures of a werewolf’s experiences from a werewolf’s perspective. The full moon is painted in a way that idolizes and illuminates it, not like the foreboding illustrations you see in most mainstream media with werewolves. The second painting, the clawed hand, is actually a full body painting. If you look closely, you can see that the rest of the body is painted from the perspective of the artist looking down at her own body. Éponine is quite literally showing us how she sees herself during a transformation. And the third one, the howling silhouette? It’s the same as with the painting of the moon. The silhouette is not mystified, grotesque, objectified, sexualized -- how human men like to depict werewolf women. Instead she is glorified, surrounded by a halo of light. She is depicting werewolves as holy beings rather than monsters.

“Now,” Feuilly continued, “I’ll admit that her technique could use some work. You’re not wrong about it looking unfinished. But she’s got some real heart.”

Combeferre considered this. “I see. I understand where she’s coming from, and it’s certainly an interesting perspective. It’s just...I suppose I still don’t see what the appeal is in pointing out our differences. Will humans ever truly accept us if we keep focusing on such things?”

Feuilly gave Combeferre a gentle look. Too gentle. “The art isn’t about humans. They’re welcome to come here and view it, of course, but that’s not the focus. It’s about us. It’s _for_ us. It’s radical self-love.”

Combeferre paused for a long moment. “...I suppose.”

“Hmm…” Feuilly hummed to himself. “Combeferre, there’s one piece I’ve been saving for last. The artist is still here. You ought to meet her.”

Feuilly took Combeferre’s hand and speedily led him past waves of gallery-goers. They hurried by each of the pieces Combeferre had already seen, then past Feuilly’s own work, deep into the heart of the gallery. Combeferre was already on edge from the physical contact with Feuilly, but when his eyes landed upon the piece that Feuilly wanted him to see, he absolutely froze.

A three-dimensional wall hanging, each one showing a new step in a progression. Specifically, the progression of a demon’s horns over time. Each pair was longer, more twisted, more colorful. Combeferre felt sick to his stomach. It was common knowledge that the more a demon used their powers, the longer their horns would grow.

And standing next to the progression piece was a female demon with horns that curled back in on themselves twice, pointing backwards like those of a ram. The violet gradient on her horns indicated that she was a succubus, and a seasoned one at that.

Feuilly grinned nervously. “Combeferre, meet Rachelle. Rachel, Combeferre.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Irma in her smooth, low voice. She distinctly did not offer a hand to Combeferre but instead nodded politely in his direction.

“Hi,” Combeferre replied tersely.

“Enj has told me a thing or two about you.” Rachelle’s words forced Combeferre’s full attention onto her. She knew Enjolras? And Enjolras talked about him? “I see you’re a brother of mine. Though your horns are so short, I can’t tell what type of demon you are…”

“Don’t call me your brother,” Combeferre said stiffly. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I just, um...I see your work is very...thematic.”

Rachelle nodded. “I actually have several pieces like this. Each one shows the horn progression of someone I know, or of a historically significant demon. This is my latest one. It shows the progression of my friend, Yvette; she’s a sleep demon, thus the dark streaks and antelope-like downward curvature.”

“I see…”

“It’s important to showcase how different horns can develop, especially when they’re properly maintained. More exposure to fully-developed demon horns makes people less afraid of them.”

“Yeah…”

“You look like you have something you want to say.”

Combeferre pushed his glasses up. He tried to find a comfortable spot to land his gaze, but looking at anything made him feel anxious and overly warm. “Well, people are justified in their fear of developed demon horns. They mean that a demon regularly uses their powers.”

Rachelle tilted her head, speaking patiently. “And what’s wrong with a demon using their powers, sweetheart?”

“They’re _demonic_ powers. I don’t know how I could make it clearer.”

“Honey, just because they’re a demon’s powers doesn’t actually make them bad. Humans decided that because our powers come from underground, and because the things many of their religions fear come from underground, they must inherently be bad. But any type of demon can put their powers to good use.”

The heat inside of Combeferre refused to settle down. He scowled. “What ‘good use’ have you been putting your powers toward?”

“Combeferre…” Feuilly scolded under his breath.

Rachelle chuckled, though her eyes narrowed. “I like to give my partners a good time. Do you have a problem with that?”

“You’re a succubus. A sex _demon_. All your powers are good for is seducing people and hurting them in pursuit of your own pleasure and -- and wrecking families. What good does any of that do? Why would you ever willingly do that to someone?” Combeferre’s restraint had obviously begun to fail him. His hands curled into tight fists, which he jammed into his pockets.

Rachelle stepped forward, no longer smiling. “Look, honey. It sounds like you’ve got a lot of internalized bullshit to work through, and I’m very sorry about that. But you’d better cool it if you want to stick around.”

The exchange between the two demons had begun to catch the eye of other attendees. Combeferre looked around and caught the eyes of a nearby bodyguard, who looked just about ready to spring into action should anyone make the wrong move. He looked to Feuilly, who was clearly not happy with him.

Combeferre, as it turned out, didn’t want to stick around. So he left. He just turned around and walked as quickly as he could away from the situation.

He vaguely heard Feuilly call after him, but he didn’t turn back. Feuilly was soon left behind in the crowd. Combeferre felt a few eyes on him -- it didn’t help that he was nearly bumping into people left and right as he hurried toward the entrance -- but they didn’t affect him. His dress shoes squeaked inelegantly as he pressed them down hard into the floor tiles. Finally, he got to the front door, which he pushed open without missing a beat.

On his way out, he saw Éponine, the scruffy werewolf artist, perched against the building’s brick outer wall with a cigarette in her mouth. She grimaced at him, and he pettily mirrored her expression. Still, he didn’t stop walking until he reached his car and got inside.

Maybe SN-centric events just weren’t for him. At least the demons he knew out in the real world had enough of a conscience to recognize the harm of their powers. Most had horns only a little longer than Combeferre’s. Even Bossuet, whose horns were long from a lifetime of accidental power outbursts, had the moral compass to keep those powers directed at himself. It wasn’t ideal how the poor guy struggled, but it made Combeferre respect him in a way that he felt incapable of respecting those like Rachelle.

Was this the kind of “Supernatural rights” that Enjolras approved of? The thought made Combeferre want to retch. He took off the jacket of his suit and pressed a water bottle he’d left in the car to his head. The water was lukewarm, but it gave him the illusion of feeling colder.

He took deep breaths. One thing was certain: he wasn’t going to the bar on Saturday. He couldn’t. He just wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. Study night it was, then. Or maybe…no. The thought of going to Jacques’s party was too much for Combeferre to handle at the moment. He laughed bitterly to himself, thinking of how he couldn’t fit in among humans _or_ among other Supernaturals. The only people who truly made him feel like he belonged with them were his and Courfeyrac’s friend group. Well, that and--

No. No _ands_. Because clearly, he was going to stop getting along with Enjolras sooner or later. It was better to just cut it off before it got to that point. Enjolras’s opinion on demon powers would be the least of his concerns; the whole ‘revolutionary’ thing should have been a red flag big enough to see from space. But he had never seen the revolutionary side of Enjolras in action, so it had all been hypothetical up to that point. It took something a little closer to home to really drill it into Combeferre’s head that anything to do with that blonde was a bad idea.

Inhaling once more, Combeferre turned his car on. He cranked up the classical music, shifted his car into gear, and drove away.


	5. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No queueing, we post our chapters in batches like fools.

“You’ve got to stop petitioning at the bar.”

Enjolras sat at his study desk, phone pressed against his ear. He had been expecting a call from the bar’s owner, but he was under the impression that they were going to have a very different conversation, as evidenced by the paper in front of him with all of the necessary information efficiently scrawled on it. “Good morning, Madame Houcheloup. I was just about call and see if you were ready to go over the arrangements for permitting my political interest group to meet in the back room--”

“No. I don’t care what Louison told you, this is _my_ establishment. When people come to Frank ‘n’ Stein, do you think they want to be bothered by hot-button issues? Hmm? Or do you think they want to drink and dance? Well, my money’s on the latter, and I mean that literally. Your constant petitioning has steered away potential regulars, which means your petitioning is also causing the bar to lose money.”

“With all due respect, Madame, I don’t see how it’s that much of a drain on your profits. Now, if we could talk about the back room, I’d like to see if--”

“No! No petitioning and no back room club. _Especially_ no back room club! I’ve heard what you and your gang get up to back there.”

“It’s not a gang--”

“It’s illegal, that’s what it is.”

“Madame, is it illegal to gather and discuss politics?”

“Not the politics! What you decide to _do_ about the politics, it’s illegal! And I will not have cops coming to my door to accuse my bar of being a revolutionary hotbed. If you want to come into my bar again, you will cease harassing my customers and plotting your schemes under my roof. Do you hear me?”

“I disagree that would cause any harm to your establishment to--”

“Stop that. Listen to me. Do. You. Hear. Me?”

Enjolras sighed. “Yes, Madame Houcheloup.”

Without another word, the bar owner hung up. Enjolras brought the paper into his hands, hesitated for a moment, then crumpled it up before dropping it into a nearby wastebasket. There went that course of action. Without getting up from his seat, Enjolras started to call the others he had planned on meeting up with. Maybe they could have the meeting in Enjolras’s apartment instead.

First he called the organizer from the Undead Organization, who sadly replied that her place of rest was too far from Enjolras’s place for her to be able to set foot there. Then he called his friend from the Unseelie Court, who admitted that he’d much rather go to the bar and get drunk than meet up strictly for the sake of politics. Then it was the selkie Enjolras had helped organize the protest for the rights of aquatic persons, who said he wouldn’t be able to make it anyway; he was too busy looking for his sealskin coat. And on and on. So Enjolras finally called Rachelle.

As he waited for her to pick up the phone, he stood and paced around his room. There wasn’t much to look at; just the plain white walls and plain wooden floor of his plain square house. The living room and bathroom had some decor in them, but when it came to the more private areas of his house, he had no interest in decorating. Thus, the study remained neat and bare.

“Hey Enj,” Rachelle’s silky voice came on through the phone. “What’s the plan?”

“This week’s meeting isn’t going to work out,” Enjolras replied.

“Why not?”

“Well, Madame Houcheloup kicked us out of Frank ‘n’ Stein.”

Rachelle scoffed. “Are you kidding me? That asshole. She’s always had it out for us.”

“Most of the regular attendees can’t make it to my place, or refuse to do so. So Saturday’s meeting is cancelled, unless I can find a place that satisfies everyone’s expectations before tomorrow.”

“Well that sucks. What are you gonna do in the meantime? I know you’re going to need an outlet for your political energy somewhere.”

Enjolras did not take offense to this statement, as it was undeniably true. “I don’t know. I’ll have to focus on the school club, I suppose. I’ll see if I can get anyone on board that way.”

“Recruitment work. Of course,” Rachelle replied fondly. “Speaking of which, I met one of your recruits -- Combeferre, was it?”

Enjolras paused for a moment, fighting off the tingling sensation beneath the ivory surface of his face. “I wouldn’t call him a recruit.”

“Yeah, neither would I. I’d call him a bastard.”

Enjolras’s brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“He was so rude, Enj. I was at the gallery showing off Yvette’s line, you know the one. Feuilly brought him up to me and he started talking about all of this, like, bad stuff that he thinks succubi do, that he thinks _I_ do. And all I could do was look at this man with his teeny weeny little horns and his moral superiority about being one of the ‘good’ demons because he doesn’t use his powers. Okay -- he didn’t put it exactly like that, but it was implied. You could tell from a mile away that he was just taking all of his own internalized mess out on me. He looked like he was itching for trouble after that, but then he ran off.”

“Well then. That’s...unexpected. You’re certain it was him?”

“It fit your physical description of him. Look, I don’t see why you waste your time with guys like that. First the one who’s always playing devil’s advocate just to annoy you, and now this…”

“I’m educating them,” Enjolras defended. “I’m educating him. He’s been very receptive to the sources I’ve sent him so far.”

“ _Just_ educating him?”

“Yes.” Enjolras didn’t see where her confusion could possibly be coming from.

“Because you’ve told me about some of the people you educate, honey, but you’ve never told me how tall they are. Or how dark their eyes are. Or how you imagine their hair would feel if you touched it.”

“I was making rational assumptions based on the hair’s appearance,” said Enjolras. He took a moment to inhale, gathering his voice into a careful neutrality. “And I’m not sure what you’re inferencing here.”

“Alright, well...I just hope all this educating pays off for you.”

“If it changes his mind even slightly -- if it just makes him _think_ \-- then it will be worth it.”

“Alright. Well, I got to go soon. Anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“Nothing pressing. I’ll see you at the next protest, right?”

Rachelle was silent for a long moment. Enjolras checked his phone just to make sure that the call hadn’t accidentally been cancelled. After waiting patiently in the faint phone static, he heard Rachelle groan. “Sweetheart...did I not tell you?”

“About what?”

“Enj, I won’t be at the protest because I won’t be in Paris. I’m moving before then. Amsterdam. Two of my partners are coming with me. We’ve just...well, we’re hoping we’ll feel a lot more at home there than we do here.”

Enjolras’s round eyes rounded further. “You’re--” _You’re the closest revolutionary ally I have right now. You’re the only person who consistently cares about the issues and the people affected by them. You’re the one who listens when no one else is interested in making things right. You can’t go._

Enjolras shook his head. They weren’t that close, not really. Not as people. He hadn’t even gone to see her display at the gallery. Yet, for as much as he put himself out there, Enjolras hardly felt connected to anyone else. He would be alone again, starting anew, building up his group of comrades from scratch.

There was a waiting game of silence between the two of them. Enjolras finally managed: “You’re probably right. You’ll find more acceptance away from here. I wish you the best of luck, in all things.”

“Hey, it’s not goodbye forever,” Rachelle crooned. “I’ll call. You call me too, alright?”

“Of course.”

In the background, Enjolras could hear someone shout out. Rachelle sighed. “That’s my girlfriend. I’d better get going; we’re supposed to have a virtual meeting with a rep from this big Dutch art studio. I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

“Alright. Good luck.”

“Thanks. And hey, if you’re gonna trouble yourself with that one boy, send him some sources about demons. Better yet, send him a PDF of that one book. You know the one. Smack some sense into his head with it. Alright, I really gotta go now. Bye!”

“Goodbye.” Enjolras hung up on his end. He had to do something to get his mind off of the setbacks in his revolutionary progress. He was genuinely happy for Rachelle, but a part of him that he knew was self-centered wanted her to stay. With the bar group falling apart, he would have to start building the revolution all over again. Just like in the 1980s. And the 2000s. And three years ago. The concept wasn’t new to him; he just hoped he could stop the cycle for long enough to get some progress made. As Enjolras scrolled through his phone, looking for relevant sources to send to Combeferre, he began to take mental inventory.

So, without Rachelle, who was left? Enjolras wasn’t thinking strictly in revolutionary terms. Instead, he was forced to account for what close personal relationships he still had. There was Feuilly, though he was as much of a repairman as he was a friend; he was one of few in the city who knew how to fix a living doll’s body. There were other activists, but Enjolras had a hard time getting them to actually _act_. Then there were his classmates, but he wasn’t sure that they counted as friends. More like friendly acquaintances. He also had some connections like Combeferre, whom he was trying to educate, but they had scarcely met. There were his old friends, from past protests and rebellions, but the surviving ones were mostly incarcerated or living incognito.

Truth be told, his closest personal connection was probably...Grantaire. Grantaire, who spared no expense to distract and irritate Enjolras, but who also stuck around. Grantaire, who Enjolras really wanted to be better. But Enjolras knew that he couldn’t count on that.

Enjolras opened his text messages, looking for his conversation with Combeferre. Before he found it, a message from earlier in the week caught his eye. It was from Jacques.

Enjolras hardly knew Jacques, aside from understanding that they went to the same university and that he was a very popular student athlete. He wasn’t sure when they had exchanged numbers, though from what Enjolras had heard, Jacques had a way of collecting them.

The text itself was an invitation to a party at one of the frat houses. It consisted more of exclamations points than words and ended in a winky face. The party happened to be scheduled for tomorrow night. Was this the same party…? Not that it mattered, really. Enjolras wasn’t the type to go to parties. Despite his permanently youthful appearance, he was nearly eighty, and his partying days were long behind him.

Wait. Did he ever have “partying days?” Enjolras found it difficult to think back that far. He certainly wasn’t partying back in the sixties, when he would have actually been the age of the average college student, and he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to party before then. Enjolras had seen protests, riots, changes in regimes all over the world. But had he ever been to a party?

Well, there was a first time for everything.

* * *

After his unpleasant moment at the art gallery two days ago, Combeferre had spent the majority of his time studying. When he wasn’t in class, he studied until there were no readings left to do, and then some. The main upside to this, he would insist, is that it put him nearly two weeks ahead of his schoolwork; the fact that it got his mind off of anything else was just a bonus.

He had not opened his texts from Enjolras, though he was painfully aware that the doll had sent a couple of new ones this morning. Just thinking about reading them made him numb with unwanted electric pulses. He tapped his fingers against his desk, trying to keep his eyes fixed neatly on the anatomical chart he had pulled up on his laptop.

A knock at his door startled him momentarily, even though he knew who was on the other side of it. “Yes, Courfeyrac?”

“Can I come in?”

“Go ahead.”

Along with Courfeyrac came the shimmer of his sequined, sleeveless shirt, which was only partially concealed by his leather jacket. His pants were nearly just as shiny, and his tall boots could have blinded Combeferre alone with their reflective make. Combeferre squinted. “I thought Jacques’s party was tomorrow.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Oh, Ferre, I wouldn’t dare go to a frat party looking like this. This is for the rave tonight -- with Jehan, remember? No, I’ll be _much_ classier at Jacques’s thing.”

“Are you going to get high on fairy dust again?”

“Yeah, just a little though. I kind of overdid it last time,” Courfeyrac admitted with a sheepish grin. “Anyway, I’ll be fine. I’ll clean up real nice in time for tomorrow night.”

Combeferre couldn’t comprehend how Courfeyrac went about his life party after party. The mere thought of going to a rave one night and then getting thrust into a frat party made his head spin. “Well, have fun. Be safe.”

“Thanks, I will.” Courfeyrac bounded over to the back of Combeferre’s seat and hugged him from behind. The demon closed his eyes, centering himself in the face of the unanticipated contact. Courfeyrac noticed Combeferre’s sudden shift and, while confused, played it off casually as he backed off.

Combeferre returned his focus to his studies, but Courfeyrac had yet to leave the room. The rave-ready roommate slowly backed up to the doorway, pretending to take in the sight of Combeferre’s room.

“You’ve really got this place sorted out, huh? Good _feng shui_. I, uh, like that picture of you with your brother. When did you hang that up?”

The picture in question was plastic-framed above Combeferre’s desk. It depicted him and his brother at a family-hired photo shoot, with dress shirts too perfectly straightened and teeth too perfectly white. Combeferre’s horns hadn’t grown in yet; he must have been seven or eight at the time. And his human big brother, going on twenty-four or so when the picture was taken, had his little sibling in his lap.

Combeferre had honestly forgotten when he had put that picture there. He never looked at it. “Must’ve been around the time we first moved in.”

“Cool, cool,” Courfeyrac replied slowly. “Hey, uh…”

Combeferre sighed and looked sideways at his roommate. “If there’s something you want to say, you can say it. You don’t have to treat me delicately.”

“Well, maybe _I’m_ the one who’s delicate,” Courfeyrac murmured, hand pressed to his chest. Then he smiled. “You should come to Jacques’s party.” Combeferre looked back at his laptop at that, but Courfeyrac continued. “Look, I know you think he doesn’t like you, but that’s exactly why you should come. He thinks you’re great, really. He can’t stop bringing you up when we hang out, always asking if you’ll be there on Saturday. I just want you to see how much he likes you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s bisexual,” Courfeyrac blurted out. “Openly. It’s the 21st century and some jocks are bi, and he’s one of them. Does that make a difference for you?”

“Not interested.” Combeferre pretended that a flash of blonde hair didn’t cross his mind at the thought.

“So what are you going to do, study? It’s a wonder that you have anything left to read in this house.”

“I haven’t finished _Dracula_ ,” Combeferre pointed out, gesturing to the book on his nightstand. “I think tomorrow night will be an opportune time to get that done.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “Well, why don’t you bring the book on the way there? That way, if all else fails, you’ll have something to do. It’s a good excuse to get out of the apartment.”

There was a long pause. Courfeyrac twiddled his thumbs, clearly wanting to say something else but struggling with it.

“Say it,” Combeferre beckoned.

“I heard about you and that guy. Enjolras.”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre muttered under his breath.

“It’s not just because Grantaire told me. I can tell he’s on your mind a lot. And I think it’s great and all that you’re trying to make new friends.”

“We’re not friends,” said Combeferre. “We barely talked. I’m done with him.”

Courfeyrac clicked his tongue. “Okay, well, then let’s be _done_ with him. This will be a great opportunity for you to get him off of your mind. You know: get out there, meet new people, forget old ones.”

Combeferre stopped tapping his fingers. Courfeyrac had a point; either he could spend the night trying desperately to keep his focus on _Dracula_ , or he could be forced to keep his mind off of Enjolras by social interaction. And the latter sounded much more effective than a night alone with his thoughts.

“And if Jacques doesn’t like me?”

Courfeyrac held out his arms, feigning exasperation. “Then I’ll buy you a Coke and introduce you to some even prettier boys. What’s there to lose?”

Combeferre smiled subtly. “Make it a sparkling water and I’ll consider it.”

Courfeyrac beamed. “God, sparkling water. There’s the Ferre I know and love. Where’ve you been all week?” He waved his hand before Combeferre could make an indignant remark. “Ah, don’t even worry about it. I really do have to head out now, but you call me if you need anything.”

Combeferre nodded. “I’ll be alright, thanks.”

“And if you get up before I do tomorrow, wake me up so I can help you pick your outfit.”

“Oh, I can pick out my own.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Again, it seemed as though Courfeyrac was not willing to say quite what he wanted to.

Combeferre fondly rolled his eyes. “I know; it won’t be as good. You _are_ the expert, after all. I’ll wake you up tomorrow.”

“Thanks! Best roommate ever,” Courfeyrac gushed, pursing his lips dramatically. With that, Courfeyrac bounced out of the room, taking his disco ball of an outfit with him.

Had Combeferre really just agreed to go to the party? Well, it couldn’t be that bad, right? He would have Courfeyrac with him, and Courfeyrac always knew how to spin a disaster into a good time. Like when they got trapped in the apartment elevator and he turned it into an impromptu karaoke room; somehow he’d even got Combeferre blasting out Whitney Houston, much to the amusement of the repairman who finally rescued them. Any amount of disappointment from Jacques could not possibly compare to the anxiety of being trapped in an elevator.

With that, Combeferre was content to put Enjolras out of his mind. Instead of going back to his studies, Combeferre went to the little bathroom he shared with his roommate, digging through the cabinets for aesthetic supplies; if he was going to put himself out there tomorrow night, he wanted to make an impression.


End file.
